


Oh Two Hundred Hours

by amorekay



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorekay/pseuds/amorekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe had said that he’d only be staying a day, that he’d only come to humor Bill and all his goddamn insistence, but four nights of insomnia later and he’s still in Babe’s house, taking up a corner of his kitchen and not letting Babe sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Two Hundred Hours

**0200**

Joe is smoking a cigarette by the kitchen counter, ash falling from the butt into the sink. His crutches are abandoned, cast aside against the table. When Babe walks in, the soles of his bare feet padding soft against the linoleum, Joe doesn't look back but the slouch of his shoulders straightens slightly and his head tilts in Babe’s direction.

All week he’s been smoking a trail through the house, starting in the tiny spare bedroom with ashes pooling in a little heap by the chair, then the haze of smoke rising to the rafters of the hall, and now with his lighter clicking on and off in the low light of Babe’s kitchen.

Babe sits down and puts his feet up on the table. When Joe looks back, he steeples his hands in front of him and regards him with a mock nod. It almost gets a smile out of Joe, and he presses a hand hard into the counter's edge, hops the small space to the other chair. “Your mother didn't teach you manners?” he says, cigarette in hand as he gestures toward Babe’s feet.

“Naw,” Babe says. “Your ma never teach you how to sit your ass down?”

Something dark and quiet flashes in Joe’s eyes for a moment, but he puts out the cigarette and lowers himself into the chair. The kitchen light casts shadows against his face, and Babe stifles a yawn, thinks it’s too goddamn late to be sitting in his kitchen having a chat with Joe Toye.

But Joe smokes silently and keeps his eyes above Babe’s head, focused on a spot near the ceiling where the wallpaper is peeling. He exhales slowly, and Babe tilts his head back and closes his eyes. Joe had said that he’d only be staying a day, that he’d only come to humor Bill and all his goddamn insistence, but four nights of insomnia later and he’s still in Babe’s house, taking up a corner of his kitchen and not letting Babe sleep.

“Shit.” Babe says. There’s an exhale of acknowledgement from Joe’s direction, and he cracks one eye open to look at him. “What the fuck are you still doing up?”

Joe says, “Can’t sleep.”

“Well, neither can I, with you all walking around the house in the middle of the night.” Babe pushes himself up and moves his feet off the table, leans in toward Joe. “What’s your problem?”

Joe finishes his cigarette. He looks Babe straight in the face, his eyes dark and tired, and says, “I can’t sleep.”

And “Jesus!” Babe replies. “I know that. Why?”

Joe looks at him, his mouth quirked sideways and his face drawn tight. Through closed teeth, he says, “I’m working on it.” He grabs the crutches from the floor and pushes himself up, and then he’s out of the room with a clatter of wood against linoleum. Babe mumbles under his breath to himself, and goes to take a piss before he goes back to bed. When he passes the spare room, he can see Joe through the open door, sitting on the rickety old chair and smoking another cigarette.

There’s a reason he doesn't have roommates, he thinks, and closes his own door.

 

**2000**

Bill grins and slings an arm around each of them. “Old buddies,” he says. “It’s like being back in war time, you know? Fucking surreal.”

And “Yeah, yeah,” Babe says, to which Bill adds, “but you weren’t sucha idiot back then. Don’t know what went wrong with you. Me and Toye, though, we were a couple of real pistols.”

Joe raises his glass in commemoration, and Babe shrugs out of Bill’s grip. He grabs his own beer and grins with all his teeth. “This is a shit way to spend the evening.” They all raise their glasses in cheers. Bill winks at the waitress when she passes by. They’re in the most crowded diner on this side of the city, shoved into a booth against the wall, with the late night crowd talking over each other into a general roar of noise all around them. The waitress looks back and smoothes out her apron, a coy smile spreading across her lips.

“I ain’t need no second leg to impress the ladies,” Bill declares, and downs his beer in one go.

They bicker and laugh and Bill continues to chat up the waitress until Joe’s complaining about the lack of alcohol on the table and how he can’t hear himself think over the racket Bill is making, and Bill just says, “Naw, come on --hey, get my buddy here another beer!” and at some point the waitress comes back with something harder for everyone, and Babe has more to drink than he ever remembers drinking before and he’s feeling pleasantly wasted.

 

**2350**

They leave Bill at his door and take a taxi back to the apartment. When they stumble inside the entry way, Babe on unsteady feet and Joe’s crutches clattering haphazard through the hall, they barely make it to the elevator. Joe says, “I hate this shit,” once they’re on their way up, because it’s rickety and dark, and Babe nods his agreement, says, “My ma wouldn’t even step in here if someone paid her a whole year's worth of cash.”

It takes him two tries to get the key in the door, Joe leaning nearby, impatient. The hall is as dark as it was when they left, and the dingy light Babe flicks just settles over the room in an off-color, dusty glow. He tucks the keys back into his pocket and waits for Joe to get in before closing the door.

“You better not keep me up all damn night again,” he says, pointing a finger at Joe. “I swear I slept like a baby until you got here.”

“Sorry,” Joe mutters, slow and easy, but his posture goes tight and closed off. He handles his booze better than Babe, because he’s barely stumbled and his eyes still look as dark and clear as they do sober. “Aw, shit,” Babe says, “I didn’t mean it’s all that bad.”

Joe laughs, his eyes raising to meet Babe’s from under hooded lids. “Not gonna be able to sleep,” he says. He crowds into Babe’s space, forcing him to step back toward the door, and then he drops his crutches and hops closer.

“Why?” Babe asks, annoyed. “You never fucking answered that.”

“Shut up,” Joe mutters, voice low and throaty. “Just, shut up.”

He presses both hands against Babe’s shoulders, his thumbs grazing across collarbones as he curls his fingers in the wrinkles of his shirt. His weight feels unsteady against Babe’s chest, like he’s supporting his entire body with one hand. His knee hits against Babe’s leg. Babe wets his lips and looks at him, still feeling annoyed, but warm and pleasantly drunk.

Joe presses forward and nips him on the mouth, a gentle pressure of teeth closing around his bottom lip, and he says something too low for Babe to make out, just a dark hum of words and the corner of his mouth quirking up in a grin.

Babe scratches an itch on his stomach in confusion, thinks, what the hell, and kisses him.

They stay for a moment, Babe’s hands stuck hesitant at his sides and his mouth pressed firm against Joe’s, with Joe shifting his weight forward and forward until he’s pressed heavy against Babe and every breath he takes balloons against Babe’s chest. Then his mouth is bearing down hard and open against Babe’s, his nails gripping sharp into Babe’s shoulders until he pulls him forward and hops a step backward. Babe stumbles, says, “What th-?”

“Come on,” Joe replies, hands tugging at Babe, his body weight leaning in the direction of his room.

After a beat, “okay,” Babe replies, and grins.

Joe pulls him the whole way, hands heavy on his shoulders and using him as support while he leads them toward the bedroom, in control even as he fumbles over the dark corners. Babe kisses him again in the doorway, enjoying the way Joe’s tongue slides over his lower lip, feeling the way Joe’s mouth turns up in a grin as he pushes him inside.

He grabs Babe by the front of his shirt and pulls him around, until Babe stumbles over his own two feet and falls sideways onto the bed. Joe lets go as Babe trips, refocusing on unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it to the ground before he sinks onto the edge of the bed. He looks at Babe, eyes near black in the dim light, and says, “This isn’t some kind of bullshit.”

“No fucking shit,” Babe says, annoyed again, and grabs Joe around the middle, yanks him back until they’re sprawled against the covers. He rolls onto Joe and spreads a hand against his chest, grinning when Joe starts to tugs at the sides of his shirt, trying to un-tuck the corners from his slacks. “Here,” he says, and unbuckles his belt, pulling his shirt and undershirt free and tugging them over his head. Joe’s hands ghost over his sides and up to his arms, and then he’s pulling him down hard.

“You,” he says in Babe’s ear, his hands working their way down to the top button on his pants, “are making me so fucking hard.” And Babe pushes himself up on his elbows, says, “If I wasn’t, this would be a real fuckin-” and then Joe shuts him up, mouth curling back into a grin.

 

**0815**

Babe thinks that coffee tastes like shit, hasn’t drank anything but water, soda, and beer since the war ended. Joe buys instant coffee at a convenience store down the block after being at Babe’s for three days, and every morning he heats water on the stove and pours himself a cup. When Babe wakes up in the wrong room with his pants undone and his head aching, the smell of coffee seems strong enough to make him throw up.

He stumbles back to his room and drags on a clean shirt, then wanders into the kitchen, cursing his pounding head. Joe regards him from the table with his cup of shitty coffee, and uses one of his crutches to push a chair out for him. Babe ignores it and goes straight for the sink to fill himself a cup of water and splash some on his face.

“I ain’t never fucking drinking again,” he declares. “Fucking Guarnere.”

Joe huffs a laugh from the table. When Babe throws himself into the chair in resignation, he finally gets a look at Joe’s face - eyes dark and tired, mouth tight and his hands clenched around his cup until his fingertips are blooming white.

“…Hey,” Babe says. “I might be shit as this, but-” He gets up and steps around the crutches, leans over Joe and presses a kiss to his mouth. “And now,” he declares, a hand to his stomach, “I really gotta throw up.”

“Get the hell out,” Joe says, gesturing with his hand, “You better not throw up on me, Heffron.”

After Babe finishes emptying his stomach into the toilet, he hears the telltale thump-thump echoing down the hall. He wipes his mouth and stands up to wash his hands. Joe is leaning against the doorway, cigarette in hand.

“Hey,” he says. Babe wipes his hands on the towel and looks at him. “Can I stay for a while?”

And Babe looks at him, incredulous, and says, “What do you think you've been doing?”

Joe laughs then, the big kind, a smile breaking out across his face. “Eating your shit ass food, stealing your room, not paying rent.”

“Right,” Babe says, “A goddamn freeloader.” He pushes against Joe’s shoulder as he steps out of the room, and smiles to himself.

“I’m an honest guy,” Joe calls after him. “I’ll find a way to earn my keep.”

 

**1310**

It takes two weeks for Bill to find out. Two weeks and three days, to be exact, and he’s just helped find Joe a job at a local grocery store where the owner doesn’t mind if he uses a stool instead of standing, says he respects all these veterans and the price they paid for the war. Joe said he used to work in the coal mines, that he can do anything, so long as he’s paid, and the owner agreed for fifty hours a week and a short lunch.

Babe meets Bill for lunch the day after, and he must’ve said something wrong when Bill asks about Joe living with him, because now Bill’s looking at him like he’s crazy, saying he ain’t stupid and he don’t miss nothing, and his jaw is working double time. “Are you?” he asks, at the same time Babe says, “It wasn’t supposed ta-”

There’s a pause.

“You’re shitting me,” Bill says, his tone raising. “You’re telling me you’re a fucking-” he glances around them, lowers his voice, “homosexual? You got to be fucking kidding me.”

Babe bites his lip, looks around them at the other customers and doesn’t meet Bill’s gaze.

“What about old darling Doris? You got inside Doris, didn’t ya? Didn’t ya, Babe?”

Babe doesn’t answer, just puts his head in his hands and shakes it. Bill slams his hand down on the table. He fishes a couple of bills out of his pocket and counts out change for a tip, slamming each coin down on the table with emphasis. “I’m getting the fuck out of here,” he says.

“Bill--” Babe starts.

“And you,” he says, his jaw set, “are coming with me.”

Bill takes them to a bench by the church, the kind that attracts old women and pigeons begging for bread, moving with purpose all the way there and tucking his crutches beside them with care before he turns to Babe. He’s deflated a little on the walk, his posture half as angry and twice as resigned when he leans forward.

“Look, all right,” he says, looking around them nervously. “There were times during the war when, you know, you’d get a little - you know,” he gestures with his hands, “and you’d think a little, you know,” he looks at Babe imploringly.

“Yeah,” Babe says, “Jesus, Bill, I know.”

“But this ain’t no fucking war, Babe. We’re back here, and everything’s right again, proper like it should be, and you could find yourself a nice girl and settle down. Hell, Babe, you don’t even have to settle down, you could just find yourself a nice broad and take her out a coupla’ times, see what she likes.”

Babe presses his hands against his temples, tries to push his fingers through his skull when he feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “Christ,” Bill says, looking at him. “Babe, I just. I don’t know fucking know. This ain’t right.”

“I know it ain’t,” Babe says. “You think I don’t know? I go to church every Sunday just like you.”

Bill sits straight, his hands fumbling uselessly in front of him. “Toye?” he says.

Babe nods.

“Jesus.” He digs a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, offers one to Babe. Babe shakes his head, and Bill lights the cigarette, sighs in relief around the smoke. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” Bill says, “but I ain’t no saint, either, and I can’t judge. We Philly boys, we gotta stick together.”

Babe looks at him. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, Bill, thanks.”

“Yeah,” Bill says, frowning. He pushes Babe in the shoulder, then quickly drops away from him. “Jesus Christ, I just don’t know.”

“Me either,” Babe says, and drops his head onto his arms. Bill sighs, and they sit there in silence while he smokes through the last of his pack of cigarettes.

 

**1820**

Babe slams the front door shut, heads into the bedroom with his shoulders shaking and his jacket tossed aside in frustration. Joe comes up behind him and presses into his back, murmurs, “Something got you riled up, Babe?” and then Babe turns around and pushes him, stares in horror as Joe loses his balance and falls to the floor.

“What the fuck,” he spits out, pushing himself up on one hand as his expression goes dark and angry.

“Shit,” Babe says. “Shit, shit.” He turns around and walks out of the room, then spins on his heel and walks back past Joe, pacing with his hands clenching and unclenching and his chest filling up with air he can’t seem to exhale. The panic comes fast and hard now, hitting him square in the chest.

“The fuck is going on?” Joe says, from the floor.

“Bill fucking Guarnere knows about fucking - this - Jesus Christ, Joe, this ain’t some dirty little secret like the time I stole those extra dollars from the corner store, this is fucking Bill knowing that I’m -fucking you. Christ.”

And “Shit.” Joe says. They both go silent. Then, “yeah,” Babe replies, a ridiculous bubble of laughter choking his throat, “Shit.” He collapses next to Joe, pushing into his space and wrapping his hands around him, his head tucking into the space between Joe’s shoulder and neck the same way he hugged his mother before he went off to join the paratroopers. “But he ain’t too mad,” he says, and it’s like a weight lifting off his shoulders when Joe curses in disbelief, his voice warm and safe against Babe’s ear.

 

Bill shows up at their door at three in the morning the next day, and Babe only rolls out of bed and answers the door because the pounding noise jolted him from a dream and shot him awake and alert, adrenaline pounding through his veins.

“Um,” Bill says, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “I just wanna let you know that I‘m fine with,” he gestures toward the inside of Babe’s apartment, “this. It’s fucking strange, I’ll tell ya that, but I’m fine.”

Joe, from the bathroom, calls out, “It’s three in the fucking morning, Gonorrhea.”

“Fuck you too,” Bill shouts back, and Babe winces at the volume of Bill’s voice right in his ear. Bill glances at him, and then says, “Hey Babe, if he,” he raises his voice to a deafening pitch again, “-hey you know if you break his heart you’re gonna be having a long and hard chat in fist city with me, Toye.”

"What the hell, Bill,” Babe complains, “why am I the one you have to watch out for?”

And Joe shouts, “Because I swear to god you still sleep with your thumb in your mouth,” while Bill says, “Because you’re still a goddamn mama’s boy,” and then Bill laughs, claps Babe on the shoulder and says, “I gotta get some sleep. See you around, Heffron.”

Babe shuts the door and heads back to the bedroom, mumbling, “I got the craziest friends in the fucking world.” And Joe, voice muffled over the sound of the toilet flushing, says, “Isn’t that the truth.”

 

**1600**

When Babe steps back into his house, his ma takes one look at him and says, “Where in all of South Philly have you been, Babe?”

“Aw, Ma,” he says, “I’ve been busy, you know?”

“Too busy to walk four blocks to check up on your family?” She turns up to the stairs, “Anna Margaret get down here, Babe’s graced us with a visit.” Then she turns to Babe, thumbs a smudge from his cheek and envelops him in a big hug. “I miss you and your brothers, now that you’re all big men. You have to visit me more often. That Bill was here just yesterday, telling me about you and that war friend of yours.”

Babe stiffens slightly, says, “Yeah, Ma?”

“Says he’s gonna be staying with you for a while, that he didn’t have any job to go back to in those coal mines since he lost his leg.” She shakes Babe by the shoulders, then pulls him into another hug. “Those poor boys.”

Babe says, “Ma, you’re smothering me.”

“Well, good,” she says, and gives him a light smack as he pulls away. “Now go get your sister and tell her we’re going to have a big party, and the whole street is coming over.”

 

**0200**

Babe wakes up alone in the middle of the night, Joe’s crutches discarded along his side of the bed and a stream of light coming through the cracked door. He rubs his face in bemusement and gets out of bed, pads across the floor in his bare feet and ends up in the kitchen, where Joe is standing with his back turned toward the counter. He’s smoking a cigarette and rubbing his thigh absently, not reaching far enough to hit where his knee ends and empty air begins.

“I thought we were done with this shit,” Babe says.

Joe takes a long drag on the cigarette and flicks ash into the sink. “There’s still a lot of bullshit,” he says. Babe looks at Joe’s taunt back, then down to where his leg should be, then winces as the headache of being up too late with too little sleep settles in over his eyes. “Hell,” he says. “Get the fuck back to bed,” and wanders his way back to the bedroom.

Joe pushes the door open after a few minutes, and Babe rolls over on his side, listens to him hop over and pause, unsteady, at the foot of the bed. The moment passes, and he sits down, punching his pillow into shape and stretching out next to Babe. And Babe settles in with his limbs sprawled over Joe, his breath hot against his neck, the weight of his body making sure that Joe will stay there. Joe huffs, mumbles something under his breath into the night, and sleeps.


End file.
